


Three Strokes to Midnight

by Toryb



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 1850s, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attendant Jughead, Class Differences, F/M, Gothic, Hal Cooper is Very Dead, Heavily Gothic Lit Inspired, Lord Archie, Murder, Murder Mystery, Period Typical Nonesense, Secret Relationship, Secrets Lies and Deception, Very Edgar Allen Poe and Turn of the Screw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toryb/pseuds/Toryb
Summary: When Betty had ridden him until neither of them could think to breath without difficulty she turned to him with the cold gaze of Elizabeth and asked, “My love, would you follow me into the flames of Hades if I asked you to?”He had answered without second thought. “I would without question.”“So loyal you are. A loyalty I am not sure I have earned. I wonder if we will have to test the strength of that promise one day.”-or-There are 72 hours until the the police come to Elm House and drag Miss Elizabeth Cooper to hang for the crime of patricide. Just three days for her closest friends to prove she had no hand in his untimely demise, but with very little to go on and halls that dare to seem haunted, hope is not in high supply.





	Three Strokes to Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my friends! I know what you're thinking, I'm thinking it too. "For the Love of God Tory put your computer down and stop writing new fics!" Which is fair, given I have like three others tucked away into the ether that need to be finished. But last night's episode INSPIRED me with that gothic horror and who am I to not answer the call? (especially that scene where Betty descends down until the hall while they're all dining, like I immediately knew I needed to write something based off of this feel) This fic will be very much tonally inspired by my favorite novel Crime and Punishment, as well as my least favorite novella Turn of the Screw (it was so good until the end) as well as taken some from Edgar Allen Poe. I literally could not stop writing this once I started. Like my fingers didn't stop until I had a whole chapter written and the rest of the story planned. So, I hope that you'll enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you so so so much to @arsenic-panda (who is not only a wonderful monk in our G&G campaign) but who immediately jumped on the chance to beta and brain storm this with me and had it done within a matter of hours. 
> 
> So, here's to me writing another niche and self indulgent fic! I hope you'll enjoy. I had an absolute hoot writing it!

The light reflects strangely off of the silverware set so purposefully around the dining room table. Perhaps it’s the way the stain glass windows distort the lights in beautiful technicolors, bathing the room in pigments so pure and bright it is nearly blinding. There is nothing set out on the table but a tea set and a small vase filled with flowers. They look recently cut, stems bathing in water so they will not wilt throughout the day. Whatever tea is in the cup tastes bitter, Jughead can tell that much from the way it sits heavy on his tongue, and even he wishes there were cubes of sugar to let melt. 

 

An old grandfather clock chimes once, twice, and three times. The sound reverberates off of the wooden floor boards as Archibald drags his chair forward again, readjusting the top of his dress shirt. It’s far too late for lunch, too early for supper, but they’ve been called together tonight for a meeting none of them can ignore. The invitation sits heavy in his pocket -- addressed to him specifically, not the man he follows around, the one with the title and the future -- scrawled in inky loops he’s spent hours upon hours memorizing in the dead of night until his candle wax burns completely through.

 

Jughead reaches out and smacks the man’s hands away, adjusting the tie he spent too long on this morning. “My Lord, if you touch it again, I will remove your hands and bring them to the chefs to use in the soup.”

 

Archibald grins sheepishly at his attendant and sets his hands to the side. The two of them have been together since they were boys, but back then, chasing around balls and climbing trees, they had no idea of the class discrepancy between them. It had not even been a passing thought, the truth that Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third would one day follow around his best friend, dressing him for parties and making sure he had the proper words for important events.

 

His family, the Joneses, had once been great in their own right, but that, with many other things, came crashing down with his father’s poor drinking habits. The day he had been shipped off to the Andrews he’d thought nothing more of it than an extended vacation to his favorite place in the world. There was nothing more delightful to a little boy than chasing through wildflower fields and running into the nearby riverbed as he danced in the sun until his back was red and he was being scolded by the maids. But with time, he found his place among the servants, learning from them all the things he would one day soon need to ensure Lord Archibald’s prosperity.

 

He can still remember the way the old crone of a maid, Agatha her name had been, screamed when he’d shattered an old teapot trying to poor himself and his young lord some tea when they hadn’t wanted to bother anyone else. She had cried and threatened to lash him, dragging him by the ear all the way out into the living room, where he would face punishment by the Lord and Lady of the house. Remembering the way his mother would beat him for the tiniest thing, he became nearly sick with worry, cowering his head in fear as he begged for their forgiveness. But, like always, they were gentle people and pulled him up by his shoulders and told him never to mind what the old maid said before sending him off to play with Archie again.

 

_ “We can always buy a new teapot, Forsythe, don’t worry so much,” Lady Mary had laughed, waving him off like his fears were impossibly silly. “You do what’s important and right, carry that with you.” _

 

_ Lord Fred smiles. “No use crying over broken porcelain.” _

 

_ “Dear, I don’t think you’ve ever said that.” _

 

He misses them with a terrible gut-wrenching sadness that stirs only in moments like this, when he is far too alone with his thoughts despite the company around him. When Archibald smiles he’s reminded of the beautiful red haired woman and the charming man who sat at her side until they’d both succumbed to the illness. They always had stayed true to their wedding vows, and on their tombstones had been engraved “Until Death Do Us Part _ ”. _

 

“You know I hate when you call me that, Jughead,” Archibald chastises, that little grin always on his face, even amongst the most dire of circumstances.

 

Jughead rolls his eyes but can’t bring himself to be angry for too long, not when he’s already poured all his strength into ignoring the worry gnawing at his stomach. “Of course. How could I forget.”

 

“You act so cruel to your Lord. I wonder why he hasn’t chopped your hands off, Forsythe?”

 

They turn to the one other person at the table, a well-to-do woman that they’ve encountered many nights before. Veronica Lodge is a woman that Archie has been after for some time now. She dodges him at parties, playing a well-thought-out game of cat and mouse, so that she always has the upperhand. It is not difficult to fool his Lord. Kind and gentle hearted he is, but he has always been kept ill-informed of the delicate games the upper class plays. It is Jughead who sits in the shadows, watching to make sure that any whisperings are snuffed out before they can truly even begin.

 

Her power comes from her wealth, not her status. The entire Lodge family deals in oil -- liquid gold that has given them more fortune than they know what to do with. So they spend it extravagantly on dresses shipped from England, France, or Spain. She must be wearing one of them now, a deep purple stitched with thread so tight it might break at any moment. The fan she holds matches her dress, and he knows the Lord’s eyes are anywhere but on the delicate painting of her lips or the soft curls framing her face. She’s flushed from the heat but it’s the first he’s noticed of it.

 

“Is that how you take care of servants that speak their mind?” he challenges, raising a brow as he sips from the bitter tea again. “I thought it was only your father who had the perchance for cruelty. Perhaps the whispers are mistaken.”

 

She bristles at the slightest poke. It’s always been his favorite thing to chase her around and rile her up. She knows the underground as well as he, and there have been many times he has crossed paths with her spies, westling the information from willing traitors with sweet words and half promises. There’s a cruelty that lurks in her heart he would envy if it didn’t stray so close to his Lord’s. Archie is a fragile man with gentle sensibilities. It is a sweetness he would give his life to protect.

 

“Someone should cut your tongue out. Servants like that have such little merit. Wouldn’t you agree, Archiekins?”

 

Every word out of her mouth is like the hiss of a temptress. She must be the Serpent holding out a forbidden fruit, and Archibald is stupid Adam so willing to reach forward. But the one place he always stays resolved is in his loyalties and the bond they have as brothers. Jughead does not fear his dismissal, and never has -- not simply because it was written by the late Lord and Lady that it would never be allowed. Even if he were formally relieved of his duty, it would be his solemn promise to watch from wherever he could. There was even a small settlement set away in their will to ensure it.

 

“Jughead is a man of honor and duty, Veronica. I’m not sure what it is like in your home, but I have never been without him faithfully by my side, and I find it difficult to toss someone away like that.” His words are not meant to be hurtful, but Jughead can see by the way she twitches they have struck a deep chord with her.

 

He wonders if she was ever softer than she is now. There are moments he can see it, the smallest pit of her heart peaking through, when Archibald insists on bringing her flowers in the early mornings just because she had complained hers had not bloomed the night before. Of course there is doubt in his heart if she truly loves him, if her affections are not just a matter of convenience or greed.

 

There are whisperings -- as there always are -- that the Lodges have fallen into troubling times, that their power plays have finally caught up with them, and there are a few wealthy men and women with every intention of seeing them thrown from their dragon’s nest atop a tower of jewels. But, then again, there is talk of many things in the unhallowed underground cities. They say Cheryl Blossom must be a vampire in disguise who masquerades at night and throws parties filled with such debauchery that even Dionysus would blush. They claim she chases after her own scullery maid and turns away all suitors that come her way despite having no heir to her family’s massive fortune.

 

Other things they claim are much more troubling, but that is why he sits here tonight, at a dinner table that makes him uncomfortable, instead of standing behind Archibald while Veronica bats her eyelashes and twirls herself just so before she stuffs her handkerchief into his jacket pocket and leaves a kiss on his cheek that has him blushing near as red as his hair for weeks to come. (The letters they share are nauseating at best, but Jughead does his duty and checks them thoroughly to ensure there is no poison tucked into the pages.) They claim that Elizabeth Cooper is a monster who murdered her father in cold blood so it would be insured she, and not her elder sister, would inherit the Cooper Estate. They claim she is a monster the same as him, a man whose mangled body was found by the police coming to take him to hang for his treacherous crimes.

 

Of course, these are the same people who only know the cold woman that is Elizabeth. None of them have ever met Betty, a blushing young girl with flowers in her hair and such beautiful poems in her heart. None of them have ever gathered frogs with her and tucked them away for safekeeping in jars that her nurse was meant to use for pickling. None of them have ever kissed her tenderly under the soft glow of the moon in the back halls of the Lord’s estate and whispered sweet promises of a closer tomorrow. They don’t know that she tastes of honey and when she smiles the world is forced to stand still just to gaze upon her.

 

But he does. Jughead is a lucky man indeed, given how coldly she has received many of her suitors, how many of them she has chased away with talk of madness in her family blood and how she’s sure that any heir she were to produce for them would meet either the fate of her sociopathic father or her ruined sister -- who now sits comfortably in a Sanitorium after nearly gouging out her husband's’ eyes in a fit of hysteria.

 

_ “Jughead, do you fancy me mad?” she had asked one night, a cigarette she had stolen from him tucked between her lips, standing by the open window wrapped in nothing but her bed sheet. _

 

_ “Would I not be mad too then, for chasing you the way I do despite all that is stacked against us?” _

 

_ The way she had smiled at him, giggling as she collapsed back into his awaiting arms as he worshiped her body in sweet kisses, had made the guilt at leaving his post dissipate quickly. Archibald had snuck out that night to spend time with his own lady. Neither of them would be missed tonight. _

 

_ When she had ridden him until neither of them could think to breath without difficulty she turned to him with the cold gaze of Elizabeth and asked, “My love, would you follow me into the flames of Hades if I asked you to?” _

 

_ He had answered without second thought. “I would without question.” _

 

_ “So loyal you are. A loyalty I am not sure I have earned. I wonder if we will have to test the strength of that promise one day.” _

 

Sitting down, watching the clock tick on, well past the time they were all schedule to meet, he wonders if this is when the test will come, if this is the moment she pushes him back against the wall and asks him to take that leap off the edge into the black unknown. There are many moments where he will gaze at her across the hall and hardly recognize her. This persona she puts on -- Elizabeth -- was so heavily cultivated by her late mother. The picture of perfection and grace, yet more deadly than the sharpest stiletto. It is a woman that scares many, yet invokes a reverence that has earned her love despite all the fears. Until now, that is. 

 

This now, this reality, where her father sits dead and the police think of no other place to lay their blame than at her feet. She, who had been betrayed by each of her family one by one. She, who had plenty of troubles the doctors said. She, who could so easily smile like her father and whisper conspiratory plots behind the scenes. There was not enough proof to convict her, not yet, but Jughead feared what they might do in desperation when the people clambored so loudly for peace, even if it all came from lies.

 

At last he hears the soft clatter of heels against the staircase, and he stands before he can stop himself. The spoon he had been studying falls to the ground as he watches her. Betty -- or maybe now she is Elizabeth -- slowly descends the stairs, dressed in a pink that suits her well. The dress is not as well-made as Veronica’s, but he knows it has been tailored by her own two hands, and the beauty lies in that. When blue meets grin he catches the ghost of a smile dancing on her lips before they are pulled tight into a thin line that reminds him so much of her mother (who they had for a very long time called the Witch of Elm House).

 

“You stand so quickly, Forsythe,” Veronica tuts, “Where is that loyalty to your Lord now, I wonder?”

 

“And you judge so harshly, sweet Veronica. Do not pout, you know I speak the truth to you, my very best friend. Is that anyway to greet me? It’s been months since we’ve last had time together. Or have you not missed me at all?”

 

It startles him still to know that these two woman can be the closest of confidants. Theoretically, he knows this is how the upper class operates, that their meeting at a girl’s school had not been coincidental, especially after the deal was struck between Cooper Locomotives and Lodge Industries. They share a kiss on the cheeks, but there is tension in the way they hug each other, a tightness with how Betty grips until she pulls back.

 

“You know I miss you. I’ve written nearly every day, but you’ve been so busy with…it all.” It’s her talent, to be as couth as possible, yet Jughead feels Veronica is doing them all a disservice. There isn’t a single person in this room that doesn’t know the bloody details of her father’s passing.

 

“I suppose I have. And you, Archibald, you look very well.”

 

He hugs her, despite the impropriety of it all. Jughead sighs and wants to scold him, but bites his tongue when they pull back just as quick and Betty is hardly blushing. In fact, she seems nearly elated with his outward affection, rubbing a hand along his arm and gracing him with a half smile. “I take it you are then -- well, I mean.”

 

“More than I can say. More than I’m allowed to say.”

 

“But of course. Every man must have his secrets.”

 

There were days, long ago passed, that Archibald and Elizabeth had been set to wed. Her mother had pulled strings, and, even if he was only a minor lord, their family would have been set for generations to come. It was unfortunate, truly, to learn that neither of them had feelings for the other, and Lord Fred and Lady Mary were not in the business of forced arrangements. Still, the friendship had not soured, and Archie often called them as good as family. There were many nights when he was not chasing women that weren’t spent keeping men away from his “too young to be wed” Elizabeth.

 

Jughead wonders if his friend is truly blind to the affair that sleeps right under his nose, between his most trusted servant and the woman he often calls sister. He knows Veronica is not so daft but values Elizabeth enough to not use it as leverage in the dance they all keep in time with so well. When Betty turns to him, the world hums so vibrantly. He yearns to reach out and touch the softness of her skin, so instead he grabs her hand and presses a soft kiss right above the emerald she wears on her ring finger.

 

In that moment he can recall with such vividity their last coupling. It was only a week before the untimely death of her father, and Jughead was set to accompany Lord Archibald back to Scotland the following day to handle a few family affairs that had arisen there. They had found themselves together on nearly every surface of her room. She had breathed so heavy beneath him, on top of him, beside him, her cheeks flushed red as she moaned his name again and again. The sound was like a sweet melody, the same promise a siren might make to a man she planned to drown overboard, and he bathed in it like a glutton promising to return as soon as he could. He had not come soon enough. And, with such a watchful eye on her home, he had not had a chance to steal away and visit since they had returned home.

 

“You look beautiful tonight. You always do.”

 

Betty bats her eyelashes up at him, removing her hand from his touch like a bashful lady should. “And you are just as heavy-handed in your flattery as always, Jughead. Come now. Sit. I have much to discuss with you all.”

 

Even with her promise of an explanation, something to make sense of the frantic letters the three of them had each received the night before, she waits until the food has been served and the maids have hurried away. They stare at Jughead with such confusion. Why does he get to sit amongst the others, they wonder, when he is just as worthless as they? They are thoughts that have plagued him nearly every night.

 

“I apologize for my rudeness. I kept you all waiting when I had been the one to summon you to Elm House to begin with. I must first explain to you all that there is a conspiracy afoot to have me thrown from my home, disgraced and labeled a murderer, ever since my father’s passing. This, no doubt, you have heard much of.”

 

“I never believed it for a minute,” Archie proclaims proudly, tone deaf as always. 

 

She offers him a patient smile regardless. “And for that I thank you. Your loyalty brings me much joy, all three of you, but it will not be enough. I have news from friends that in three days I will be brought before a judge and sentenced to hang for the murder of my father. They will not be kind even if I am a woman, for there are people who claim I have made it so justice will never be served for all those he wronged, all the families he tore apart. The survivors are either enraged or entirely too grateful towards me, and by the minute my family’s already fragile standing threatens to give way. So I have invited you in order to offer a last request. Please, spend the night here with me and help me to uncover what truly happened to my father that night. I have reason to believe someone within the town of Riverdale was to blame for these crimes, but many of them no longer trust me. It is my last hope that the four of us together will be able to uncover the truth and set me free.”

 

“They mean to have you executed? Elizabeth, that is barbaric!” Veronica nearly jumps to her feet, outraged. “And with what proof?”

 

Elizabeth sips her tea calmly, dropping another sugar cube into the water. “They need none, and they have little. I am guilty in the court of public opinion, and, though they claim I will have a fair and just trial by my peers, I will not. I am guilty until proven innocent, which can only be undone by uncovering the real perpetrator. I know this is much to ask, and if your names are found to be wrapped up in this mess, then I will drag you down into the mud with me. It is risky, but it is my very last hope.”

 

“I will,” Jughead says without hesitation. It would be the polite, the proper thing to do, to follow his Lord’s wishes, but there is none of that sensibility left in his head. The woman he loves is facing down the executioner’s axe and he refuses to stand idly by and wait for it to come down over her neck.

 

“As will I. You’re my sister, Betty, I won’t let them hurt you. I could even work to stall it. I’m sure there’s connections somewhere, a few strings I can pull to give us more time.”

 

She smiles sadly at Archie, before reaching out and give his hand a squeeze. “Thank you. Both of you. But what say you, Veronica. I know I ask much of you, especially when your father is under the gaze of the law. I have no ill will to give if you do not agree to my--”

 

“You are a fool if you think I would not stand by you after the years you have spent beside me.” Veronica shakes her head, pretending to be offended by the very notion, but within her eyes burns a fire that is startling. “I promise you this, Elizabeth: a Lodge never fails to get what they want.”

 

There are tears in her eyes now, as she collapses back against her chair, all sense of elegance gone. Elizabeth is crumbling, and bits of tender and scared Betty threaten to show through the cracks in her armor. “Thank you. I admit when I first sent the letters I was so terribly frightened that none of you would come. I have lost so much in these last months that it would not have surprised me to lose the last of those I cherish so much. I’ve become nearly sick with worry and have found it difficult to eat. I have no interest in dying so young, not when I have unfinished business, but I have worried.”

 

“There is no need for that anymore, Betty,” Jughead says her name sweetly. He wishes he could throw himself around her, wrap her tightly in his embrace, but that will have to wait until the sun sets and they are allowed a moment alone without watchful eyes. “We will make sure of it.”

 

“We had best start soon. Already we waste precious daylight hours with nonsensical and irrelevant chatter,” Veronica interrupts, impatient. “Tell us, what exactly is it that you have found.”

 

Elizabeth sits up a little straighter, drying her eyes as quickly as she can, before fixing them each with a hard look as she produces a carefully folded note from her pocket. “I suppose it would be imperative for me to tell you this then. I think that my mother may still very well be alive, and played a part in his death. And this is the proof.”

 

They take turns reading the note and Jughead grabs it twice just to ensure his eyes are not deceiving him. But as it sits before him there is no mistaking this handwriting as the late Alice Cooper’s.

 

_ When the dead come back to speak there can be no more lies. _

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr @tory-b where I have a daily existential crisis and make poor choices about my sleep habits out in the open for public judgement


End file.
